Night Bird

Night Bird

         My eyes burned as I tried to pick myself up off the floor, straining to get my head just an inch above the crumbs on the carpet. I failed, ending up on my back, staring at the stains on the ceiling. My half open eyes caught an early morning sunbeam coming through a crack in the yellowed curtains, cascading onto the wall across from the window as dust floated in the air, crossing the intense light and illuminating like fireflies dancing on a warm summer evening.
         The clock above the door still read four twenty-three, same as yesterday, same as the week before, but my best guess was ten AM. My head pounded and throbbed, the hum of the refrigerator and the dog barking next door creating an excruciating sound.
         I mustered enough will to get to my knees and on up to my feet, stumbling and falling into the door frame, taking a moment to catch my breath. The bathroom felt like a million miles away as I shuffled across the kitchen floor, beer bottles scattering like cockroaches.
         I was too sick for breakfast, except for the last beer that was in the refrigerator door, an old cheap bottle I had for months that tasted like stale dish water. I swept the garbage from the couch and sat, lighting a cigarette and contemplated the day. It was nice enough for a walk in the park, or maybe a museum, and of course, the bar. I searched my pockets for money. I only had a few bucks left after buying last night's beer. Maybe Jerry would buy me a drink. I finished the beer and changed shirts, head still pounding.
         I chose the cemetery, the most peaceful of places. I took in the smell of the pine trees and the sounds of the birds as I entered the grounds, sitting on my usual bench, weather worn and splintery, rarely used by humans except for me. A gentle breeze flowed through the leaves and I closed my eyes, the air and sound soothing my raging headache.
         As I walked out I read the tombstones, worn markers of souls that have long since passed. Henry Phillips, 1906-1967, Devoted father and husband. Charles Devon, 1898-1955. Madeleine Ross, 1935-1997, Married to Michael Ross and mother of five.
         No burial for me. I am alone. No one to take care of my remains when I pass. I will be found by the police after a neighbor calls complaining about the smell, my body cremated by the county coroner and the ashes kept at a government storage facility, collecting dust.
         The streets smelled of lonely hearts, people shuffling the sidewalks searching for a sense of self, lost and confused about their place in the world, looking for escape. Never happiness. Reaching, grasping at the unattainable feelings that they imagine will fulfill their deepest desires. Including me.
         I had enough change to buy a couple cigarettes from the corner store, lighting one as I walked out. I exhaled as I passed Charlie, the bum who lives in the doorway on 18th street, mumbling and holding his pants up with one hand, gesturing the other like a preacher would gesture to a congregation. I gave him a quarter.
         My destination was Jerry's, the only human I can spend more than a few minutes with without disgust, and the only person who can tolerate my drunken outbursts. We met a few years ago at The Velvet Lounge while I was on a bender, and he was kind enough to get me home in one piece. I bought him a drink the next day and we have been friends ever since. I hoped he was home and he could front me a few bucks until my welfare check came in the mail. He owes me anyway from when I got him laid, for free, by that gal who hangs out at the Fairview bar on Avenue B. The one with the brown hair and the scar on her cheek.
         His building was on 12th. I buzzed his apartment, no answer. I waited for a minute before buzzing again. Nothing. I turned to leave when I heard his voice, tired and hung over, crackle through the speaker.
         "Who is it?"
         "Bill"
         "It's early."
         "I know, let me up will ya."
         The door buzzed and I entered, walking up the two flights to 3C. His door was cracked open. I walked in as he puffed on a cigarette, sitting only in his shorts with his legs crossed.
         "Billy, how are ya?"
         "Good, except for this headache. Need a drink."
         He pointed at a nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter. I rinsed out a water glass that was close by and poured a little, taking a sip.
         "Thanks bud," I said, "Did you go out last night?"
         "Went to Shaker's restaurant with Al and Jenny for her birthday. Decent food but weak drinks. Then I came home. Was tired from working yesterday."
         I sipped. "I stayed home and drank the cheapest beer I could find, pretty broke at the moment."
         He looked at me and smiled, "You need a loan?"
         "No, no, nothing like that, I should get my check soon. But a few drinks would make my day."
         He grinned and took a sip of the whiskey, "Would make my day too. You interested in a bloody mary for breakfast?"
         "You read my mind," I said.
         He got dressed as I read a two day old newspaper.
         "You like Murray's Diner?" he asked.
         "That place on 9th? I think I've been there."
         "Good drinks. And food if you're hungry."
         "I might get some eggs."
         We walked the three blocks and sat in a booth, my sweaty back sticking to the red pleather seat. Dirty light fixtures hung from the ceiling, bulbous and ugly, reminiscent of the 1950s. Finger prints smudged on the door frames revealed the grime that lingered on the hands of the bus boys; butter, gravy, and ketchup. A crack in the window resembled a river coming down through the mountains, jagged and meandering across the plate glass.
         "Good morning, would you like to start with drinks?" the waitress asked, her sad eyes filled with pain and restlessness.
         "Two bloody mary's please," I said.
         "Great, I'll put those in for ya."
         Jerry and I scanned our menus in silence until she returned.
         "Here you go, two bloody mary's," she said.
         She sat one each in front of both of us, "Would you like to order food?"
         I pointed at Jerry. "I'll have an everything bagel, toasted, with cream cheese and lox," he said.
         She wrote on her pad, "And for you?"
         "Scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and wheat toast please."
         She wrote on her pad, "Ok, we'll get that going for ya," she said as we smiled at each other.
         "She's cute, but sad. Someone hurt her recently," I said.
         "You're twenty years older than her," Jerry said.
         "I don't want to MARRY her, I'm just sayin'."
         We sipped our drinks. "Not bad," Jerry said.
         "Too weak," I said, "Needs more alcohol."
         "We'll hit the bar after this."
         We drank until our food came. "Bagel," the waitress said, setting it down in front of Jerry. "And scrambled eggs with toast. Anything else for you two?"
         "Hot sauce for me," I said.
         She turned to Jerry and he shook his head with a mouth full of bagel.
         "Should we hit Paddy's today," he asked.
         "I don't think I'm in the mood for singing Irishmen," I said.
         "Skylark?"
         "Yeah, I think that's more my mood today."
         "You've been in that mood for a while now."
         "I guess so, I haven't had a good month."
         "You haven't had a good year, with the divorce and all, losing your job. I don't know how you've made it, I would be a mess."
         I chuckled, "I am a mess."
         The waitress returned, "Would you like two more bloody mary's?"
         I looked at Jerry, "Sure," he said.
         "Thanks," I said, "Thanks for the drinks, I can pay for my food."
         "No trouble buddy, you've helped me out before, when I was broke."
         "I haven't been this broke since my twenties. I'm not sure I can even make rent next month."
         "Have you looked for work?" Jerry asked.
         "A little, but I can't seem to get motivated. Nothing I used to do interests me anymore. Design, painting, drawing, even curating, none of it."
         "But you're such a good artist."
         "Thanks, but the spark is gone. The muse has left me."
         "Here you go," the waitress said, placing two more drinks in front of us.
         I smiled at her then looked at Jerry, raising my new drink, "This is what interests me now."
         We finished our drinks, paid, and smoked as we walked to the bar.
         "When was the last time you did a drawing?" Jerry asked me.
         I looked down at the sidewalk in disgust, at myself and at him, although he was the only person who could ask me that, and he knew it.
         "It's been a while, a couple months at least. I don't even remember the last drawing I did," I said.
         "There has to be a way you can get back on the horse," he said.
         "I have no inspiration, no desire. I don't even WANT to."
         "Well, I hope you do at some point, I would love to see some new work."
         We walked up to the front door of the bar, graffitied and worn in spots to the bare metal, a crooked SKYLARK neon sign flashing in the dirty window next to it. A bare single lightbulb hung from the ceiling above the door as we went inside, the worn wooden bar sprawling out before us. Booths lined the wall across from the bar, and a few patrons were scattered around the bar, none we recognized.
         "Whiskey double, no ice," Jerry said to the bartender, a wrinkled and melancholy man, with grey sideburns and slicked back hair.
         He poured then looked at me, "Same," I said.
         We took a booth along the wall, photos of past patrons and B list actors staring at us from the wall, and sipped.
         "He gave us the shitty stuff," Jerry said.
         "Yeah, he doesn't know us."
         We drank in silence as I looked around the bar. An ancient old man, hunched over a drink, looked broken in his worn grey cardigan sweater and stained khaki pants. A few stools down was a man ten years younger but just as broken, with a salt and pepper beard and black rimmed glasses, sucking on a beer. In a booth across from us sat a younger woman, alone and head hung low, hands wrapped around a glass. Her dyed black hair hung down over most of her face but I could see the piercing dark eyes, staring out into nothingness.
         "What are you staring at?" Jerry asked.
         "That woman over at that table over there," I said, pointing my finger so only Jerry could see.
         He turned around and looked for a moment, "She looks pretty sad," he said, sipping his whiskey.
         "She intrigues me."
         "You just want to do her."
         "No, seriously, I'm curious about her. Her life, and why she's in a dark bar at noon."
         "Same reason we are."
         I raised my glass towards him and finished my drink.
         I got up and walked towards her table. She kept staring at the wall as I sat down across from her.
         "Hello, I'm Billy."
         Silence.
         "What's your name?"
         Silence.
         I started to get up.
         "Julie," she said.
         "That's a nice name," I said, "I'm Billy," offering my hand for her to shake it. She stared forward, ignoring my hand.
         I turned to leave, "Billy is a nice name," she said. I turned back around and she was looking at me. Her eyes were dark and lively, energetic but filled with longing.
         "May I sit back down?" I asked.
         She gestured to the chair.
         "Do you live around here," I asked.
         "Not too far."
         "I'm down on 23rd," I said, pointing in the direction of 23rd.
         She just stared at the wall.
         "What are you drinking?"
         "Vodka tonic," she said.
         I took out what little money I had left. Enough for two drinks.
         "Vodka tonic it is."
         I went to the bar and ordered the drinks, returning to the table as she finished her drink.
         "What do you do?" I asked her.
         "This," she said, sipping her new drink.
         "I'm an artist," I said.
         She sipped.
         "More of a designer, but I also paint and draw."
         Sipping.
         "I came here with a friend, would you like to join us? He's sitting over there," I said, pointing towards Jerry.
         She looked over, stared at me for a moment, then shook her head yes.
         We walked up to the booth, "Jerry, this is Julie."
         They shook hands, "Nice to meet you Julie." Julie smiled through the hair hanging in her face.
         Jerry leaned over close to me and whispered, "I'm running out of money."
         "I just spent my last buck on these drinks," I answered.
         "One more round?" Jerry asked us as he finished his drink.
         "Yes sir," I said, laying my glass down on the table with a loud thud.
         Julie shook her head yes as she sucked the last of her vodka tonic through the straw.
         I looked over at Julie as she stared ahead, her hands between her knees. Jerry came back with the drinks.
         "After this we can go to my place. I have a bottle stashed away for special occasions," Jerry said.
         "Great man, sounds good," I said.
         "There's a song I want to hear, I'll be right back," Jerry said, leaving the booth towards the jukebox.
         I took a sip as Julie spoke, "It will cost you extra for two of you."
         I choked on my drink. "Are you a..."
         "Well, not professionally, but it is how I make money sometimes."
         I drank.
         "Hundred bucks each if we go all the way," she said.
         "I'm sorry if I came off the wrong way. I was just interested in you and wanted to say hi, it wasn't anything else."
         She rolled her eyes, "It's always something else."
         She chugged her drink and finished it, "Let me out, please."
         "Wait, you don't want to come to Jerry's for a drink? No funny business, I swear."
         "Let me out," she said, raising her voice a little.
         I scooted out of the booth and stood up, she was right behind me.
         "Seriously, what if we invite another girl friend of ours over so you're more comfortable, it would be fun."
         "What's going on, are we leaving already?" Jerry asked as he walked up.
         "What do you say? We'll invite another woman over and you come with us." I asked Julie.
         She stared at me, searching for trust, "Ok."
         "Jerry, can you call some of our lady friends and see if one can join us?"
         He looked puzzled at first but caught on, "Yeah sure, no problem."
         He made a couple calls as we walked to his place. "Jackie will be joining us in about half an hour," he said.
         "Great," I said, looking at Julie, who had her arms crossed, looking straight ahead.
         We walked in silence to Jerry's place.
         "Sorry about the mess," Jerry said as we arrived, "Let me straighten up a little."
         He picked up some clothing and threw them on his bed, the dishes he collected clanged as he stacked them next to the sink.
         "I'll be right back," he said, heading towards the bathroom.
         "Where is that bottle?" I asked Jerry, as Julie stood near the door.
         "In the cupboard above the fridge," he said from the bathroom.
         I grabbed the half full bottle and found clean glasses, taking them to the kitchen table. I poured a glass and handed it to Julie. She looked at me, untrusting, then took the glass. I poured another and we both took a sip.
         "Ah, the good stuff."
         "Did you find it?" Jerry asked.
         "Yeah, nice and smooth," I said.
         Jerry looked at Julie as he poured, "Still don't trust us, huh?" he said and she glared. "I don't mind if you drink my last bottle of whiskey, but please sit, we won't hurt you. We're gentlemen drinkers."
         She sipped and sat at the kitchen table as Jerry and I sat on the couch, lighting cigarettes.
         "Do you go to Skylark often?" Jerry asked Julie, "I don't remember seeing you there before."
         "I'm new to town. I moved here from L.A."
         "Oh cool, I'm from California, born in L.A.," I said. "Were you born and raised there?"
         "No. I've traveled a lot, lived in a lot of places," she said.
         "Nice, where exactly?" I asked.
         "Around," she said, sipping.
         I took a drag on my cigarette as the door buzzed. Jerry got up and spoke into the intercom, "Jackie?"
         "Yes," a female voice crackled.
         Jerry opened the door, "Jackie, how are you dear," he said, giving her a hug.
         Her long brown hair flowed as she entered the apartment, covering most of her shoulders and down the front of her tank top, her jean shorts ripped purposely at the pockets, high heel sandals on her feet.
         "Hi Billy," she said to me, waving, "Hello, I'm Jackie," she said to Julie, extending her hand.
         "Julie," she said, shaking Jackie's hand.
         "Want a drink?" Jerry asked Jackie.
         "A double," she said, sitting next to Julie at the kitchen table.
         "You working tonight?" Jerry asked Jackie.
         "Unfortunately yeah," she said, sipping, "An early shift too, so I can only stay a couple hours."
         "This whiskey will only last that long anyway," Jerry said, "Then we'll follow you to work."
         Julie sat silent as the three of us drank and smoked, telling stories of our late night drunken escapades. Bar hopping, getting arrested, waking up in strange beds.
         "Shit, I gotta go," Jackie said, looking at her watch.
         "I'll go with ya," Jerry said, struggling to get up, obviously drunk. "You two can stay here if you want, hopefully we'll see you later at the bar."
         "We'll meet you there," I said, closing the door behind them. I went to the bedroom and took fifteen dollars from the nightstand drawer.
         "I have enough money for beer if you want to come to my place. No funny business," I said, right hand over my heart.
         Julie thought for a moment then finished her drink. "Ok."
         We walked in silence, stopping for beer and cigarettes. I gave Charlie another quarter. We got to my place, "Welcome," I said.
         "May I use your bathroom?" Julie asked.
         "Of course."
         I cleaned up a little as Julie began singing in the bathroom, the words muffled by the closed door. "Oh my...darkness...will be there...because I...bird...show you."
         She came out as I sat on the couch. "You have a nice voice," I said.
         "Oh, no, but thanks."
         "Seriously, have you ever done it professionally?"
         "Not really, a couple small shows here and there."
         "You're in New York now, maybe Broadway!" I said enthusiastically.
         She laughed, "I'm not sure I would even want that," she paused and looked out the window, "I'm not sure what I want."
         "I'm not sure anybody does."
         She looked me in the eyes, "Are you scared too?"
         "Terrified. That's why I drink so much."
         "I don't know what I'm going to do. I spent my last bit of money at the bar. I have nowhere to go."
         I got up and sat in the dining chair next to her, "You can stay here. It's only the couch, but at least you won't be on the street."
         She looked at me untrustingly.
         "Look, I know you don't trust me but really, no strings attached, and no funny business. I can't let you walk out knowing you might be out on the streets."
         She stood up and turned around, arms crossed. "I've been hurt so many times, I can't again," she said.
         "You'll have to trust me, please, don't go out on the streets."
         She paused, "Ok, but if you touch me..."
         "Not a finger, I swear. Now, tell me about that song you were singing."
         She sat back down. "My mom made it up, after the 'Hush little baby don't you cry' lullaby. She told me when I was a girl to sing it when I was scared, and I still sing it."
         "It's very nice. I like it."
         "It's silly. I'm a grown woman, I shouldn't be singing lullabies. But it does comfort me."
         "Then keep singing. We all need something to comfort us."
         "What comforts you?"
         "Art. Painting and drawing. I love it, but I've been afraid of it lately."
         "Why?"
         "I feel like I've lost the inspiration, the muse is gone." I gulped my beer.
         "Maybe you can get it back."
         "Maybe. But I don't even know where to start."
         "You can start by drawing me."
         I sat frozen on the couch for a moment, but I saw in her eyes that she was serious. I got up and began searching for my drawing pad and pencil, left in the corner of my bedroom, gathering dust. I came back out and she was laying on the couch. I sat on a dining chair and feverishly began drawing, the pencil resistant at first but then flowing, effortlessly and artistically. I completed a drawing quickly, then tore the sheet away and started a new drawing, better than the first. The pencil became one with her body and my hand, we were connected. We didn't speak, but she did begin to sing as I finished drawing after drawing, creativity filling the room for the first time in months.
         It became dark outside and I collapsed from exhaustion, dizzy and spent, months of fear, depression, and alcohol exiting my body in one swift exorcism. Julie helped me to bed, laying me down, singing as I fell asleep:

Oh my honey          
Don't be scared
When the darkness
Comes
I will be there

If I'm not there
Because I died
The night bird
Will show you
How to fly